


When We Danced

by KorrohShipper



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dancing, Day 6, F/M, Headcanon, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Steggy - Freeform, Steggy Week 2020, Time Travel, War time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:41:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25489429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KorrohShipper/pseuds/KorrohShipper
Summary: Peggy never really did care for dancing.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Peggy Carter, James "Bucky" Barnes & Peggy Carter & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, Peggy Carter & Chester Phillips, Peggy Carter/Fred Wells (past), Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers
Comments: 4
Kudos: 55





	When We Danced

**Author's Note:**

> Day 6 (Fridays): Headcanons and Favorite Moments

Peggy never really did care for dancing.

For the life of her, growing up in a well-to-do upper-middle class family in Hampstead, she was always taught that dancing was a tool and that she had to perfect it. After all, Amanda Carter was nothing if not persistent in her goals. 

She remembered all the stuffy parties that her mother either threw or had been invited to attend when she was a teenager. All those balls she had been forced to attend and smile and dance at inevitably had her mother working around behind her back, talking to people left and right in the goal of, without discretion, setting her up with any young man who hails from a reasonably wealthy, respected, well-connected, and established family. 

In fact, the moment Peggy's parents expressed their interest in sending her away to a boarding school to further her education, she had encouraged them to the point where they grew wary and wondered if it would be better to keep her at home and hire private tutors. 

In the end, she had been sent to St. Martin-in-the-fields High School for Girls where she is a hero for breaking in the headmaster's home and stealing his wife's knickers and a lovely bottle of brandy to top it all off.

* * *

Eventually, the years passed by and her mother's continuous nagging of her becoming in to a woman came to fruition. 

While her mother had pressed for literature—"Peggy Carter, literature is a fine course. You'll be well-read, yes, but nothing too intimidating." Her mother reasoned while she retorted, with a dry tone, "Intimidating who exactly, Mama? A dog?"—Peggy insisted on filling out the forms and she became a newly minted psychology student of Trinity College in Cambridge. 

It was there when her outlook on dancing had initially changed. 

Dancing there had been less confining than home's.

The music is loud and lights are dimmed. Underground clubs, soirees, and nightclubs had been given rave reviews and Peggy had been dragged away, one night, two years into her studies by her flatmates to a joint where the band was perpetually loud and the drinks were always watered down. 

Catherine and Joan, who had disappeared into the sea of people dancing with their respective beaus, left her alone at the table and she took a long, slow drag out of her cigarette. If it keeps like this—tipsy, but not even adequately drunk in a loud room which smelled of sweat and cheap liquor—then it was going to be a long night. 

But it was there, at the far end of the bar's counter where she first saw him. 

His name is Fred Wells and he is, at first, a breath of fresh air. 

Upon their conversation, she's learned that he's actually home from Eton and that some of his friends had managed to convince him to join them for a night out and now, as a consequence, was left alone and looking almost miserable as he sipped gingerly at his glass. As someone who was similarly forgotten by friends living their merry lives, what she felt in him was an understanding of kindred spirits. 

It did not take long, after three or more brisk walks out at night or the little lingering touches of their fingers, that they began to date. 

When Peggy took him home to meet her parents, her mother had been thrilled. 

The Wells family had been long-associated with the industry of tea-broking, earning themselves not only a wonderful name in the business but have also amassed an impressive fortune through the years. Additionally, his family was a junior branch of a Staffordshire peerage and rubbed shoulders with rather well-known and important names in the country. 

Reserved, polite, respectful, and intelligent, Fred Wells was everything her mother wanted in a son-in-law and was quite vocal in her high praise in her man of choice and is not lacking in her unsubtle undertones that he is the type of man she should associate herself with. 

Like any other man of their social class, he proposed marriage on the Christmas of their second year together. Naturally, with open encouragement from her mother, she had said yes. 

When the wedding preparation began, in light of the reception that would be the talk and the event of the Hampstead social calendar, her mother had sent for a dance instructor to teach her to how to properly dance.

It wasn't ideal. She never did like dancing but Fred seemed to like the idea and she realized that it wasn't perfect. 

No relationship's perfect, she knows that deep in her heart, and she understands that to make a marriage work, she has to compromise, even if that meant sacrificing a few of her own personal goals and comforts. It wasn't perfect, she reminded herself as she danced with Fred the night of their engagement party before Michael showed up, but it is a smart match and she loves Fred. 

But even as she smiled and waved and laugh at the appropriate places here and there, she couldn't help but notice the nagging, screaming voice at the back of her head that yelled at her, urged her that something was wrong and that whatever this is, what she had with Fred was not right.

"But be honest," Michael had told her, "is he the love of your life? Is this really how you see your future?"

* * *

> THE SECRETARY OF WAR DESIRES ME TO EXPRESS HIS DEEP REGRET THAT YOUR SON, CAPT CARTER MICHAEL H. WAS FATALLY WOUNDED IN GERMANY. . .

The words of the telegram kept repeating itself in her mind. 

The moment she knew, she understood that Michael was dead, the suffocation settled in her chest once more and this weight was not alleviated until she left the ring on her vanity along with a hastily penned letter addressed to both her parents and to Fred to apologize, and a phone call to the SOE to accept their offer. 

In the minutes she had learned of Michael's death, she understood, finally, what he meant. 

It was a crushing guilt that she had not realized in time to make him proud, but it would dishonor him and the potential she knew she had if she were to ignore it further. 

Michael was right. Fred Wells, honestly, is not the love of her life. 

* * *

The rescue of Abraham Erskine and the promise of his miracle serum sends them to America. 

There, she sees a new form of dancing, one that is neither a social tool or a means of desperate escape. 

In a bar turned dance hall come the weekends, she hears lively music and smiling faces. Couples are dancing, fire burning in their motion, free in their expression. There is nothing bound, chained, or reserved and for a moment, it was all too much. 

Everything she saw was raw—raw passion, energy, life. 

It felt too much, like an intoxicating flame but the longer it was held, the more damage it brought, the deeper the burns. 

A man, dark brown hair, a charming suave smile with dimples indenting his cheeks had tapped on her shoulder. 

"Hey," he says smoothly, "my buddy and I thought you were lonely by yourself at the bar—" his companion, she scanned his immediate surroundings, was nowhere to be seen, "—and wondered if you'd like to go out dancing. My name's Buck—"

She cuts him off with a polite but tight smile before downing the rest of her drink. 

There is a war they had to win. 

Oddly enough, as she exits, she collects her coat, she sees that the man is joined by his companion, standing at a level best height of the base of his friend's neck. He is skinny, but what strikes her is that he laughs. Over the loud music, it seems, she hears him say, "Ah, look at that—a dame who said no to you, Buck!"

In true American conviction, the brunette gave a smirk, "Hey, I was just trying to get you a date, you jerk."

* * *

She is assigned as the British liaison to Project Rebirth and she thinks she meets the most wonderful man on earth. 

His name is Steven Grant Rogers, and despite Colonel Phillips wanting Hodge to become the recipient of the experimental super soldier serum, she inwardly smiles when he outsmarts his way to get the flag and she thinks, had the world been different and that there is no war, she would ask him out on a date. 

Her respect for him only grows as she continues to supervise the training regiment of the recruits—Colonel Phillips had given them a test, one she was not aware of, and when she sees the grenade make its way to the line of soldiers, she thinks of Steve and hopes that she makes it in time to throw herself instead. 

But it was Steve, the very same Steve whose fellow recruits had mercilessly bullied him down, had slammed his body to the ground and curled himself upon the explosive in an effort to save those around him. 

And when the shock wore off, when the worry dissipated, she couldn't help the look of awe and admiration at his direction when he wondered if it was a test. 

Because only Steve Rogers, a man of 90-pounds soaking wet, would throw himself into what he assumes is a live grenade and wonders only afterwards if it were a test.

* * *

When Dr. Erskine announces his choice, she couldn't be more happier at the clear candidate. 

And the morning they drive into Brooklyn, the car whizzing past the familiar landmarks of his youth there, she couldn't help but strike up a conversation. 

"Do you have something against running away?" and she asks, the question resonating deep into her because, in some aspect of her quest for the adventure she's dreamed of, the difference she knew she could make, she did, at one point, run. 

"You start running," he says meaningfully, but at the same time with experience, "they'll never let you stop. You stand up, push back. Can't say no forever, right?"

She gave a hum of confirmation, of a shared understanding and she feels a certain spark reignited in her. Unable to help herself, she smiled as she watched him gaze outside the window of his side, "I know a little of what that's like. To have every door shut in your face."

At that, he chortles out, reddening at the base of his neck and quickly spreading to his cheeks. "I guess I just don't know why you want to the army if you're a beautiful dame—" he sputters out, then, nervously clearing his throat with a touch of a cough, "—or a beautiful. . .a woman. An agent! Not a dame, though you are beautiful. . ."

And she laughs, not unkindly, but amused, just the tiniest bit. "You have no idea how to talk to a woman, do you?"

At that, he smiles bashfully, "This is the longest conversation I've had with one," but then, he sobers up with a ragged, lingering sigh, "Women aren't exactly lining up to dance with a guy they might step on."

Peggy pauses, for a brief moment. For all her hatred for dancing, she had never once considered what it was like for someone who hadn't done it, she had never thought of what it was like not to dance. "You must have danced." She insists, but he shook his head, not in self-pity, which she admires him for the more, but in a silent shrug that he didn't let it affect him. 

He tells her that he once danced, standing on his mother's feet when he was seven and in that one line alone, she could see the love and respect he holds for his mother. It is also with the job that she holds as an intelligence officer that she is tasked with the duty of knowing who he is. Peggy smiled, a soft but enduring smile as she takes note that it has been more than 7 years and he still feels the death of his mother. 

"Well, asking a woman to dance always seems so terrifying. And the past few years just didn't seem to matter much. Figured I'd wait."

"For what?"

He shrugs before giving her that smile that she has come to identify with Steve Rogers. "The right partner."

Despite herself, she feels a burgeoning spark inside of her, one that seems so foreign because it has never happened before. It is the first time, she thinks, that she finds that she wants to dance, that she always has and that all that was truly needed was the right partner.

* * *

The unit, after being recently rescued, is given a night of leave to recuperate and collect their bearings. 

In a fit of generosity, Colonel Phillips grants her a night of leave, too, and mentions, offhandedly, that she needs to deliver to Captain Rogers a message of utmost importance that he needs to meet with Howard Stark tomorrow to test some equipment for the command the congress and US military has granted him after the success of their backdoor mission. 

Still at her dormitory, which she shares with Mary, a mechanic and driver in the Auxiliary Territorial Service, and when she mentions her predicament—which her flatmate colorfully remarks as, "A date with Captain Gorgeous!"—Peggy found herself being given a look dead in the eye, one where Mary does not break contact as she flips through her dressed and fishes out a red dress that is more than a few years out of season. 

"Bring out the red dress," and, less tastefully, she adds, "and for bloody sake, Peggy, give him a shag or I will!"

The moment she stepped inside, there had been silence. 

Steve and his friend, a surprisingly familiar figure, stepped forward to greet her. "Agent Carter."

His friend, Bucky Barnes, stood by his side, "Ma'am."

She keeps her gaze on Steve level and schools her features into one of control and calm. Inside, however, was a different story. She wonders if she should take Mary on her advice when she thinks otherwise. "Howard has some equipment for you to try. Tomorrow morning?"

"Sounds good," and she sees, at the quickest, briefest moment, that his tongue darts out to wet his lips. 

There was a ruckus from the other side of the pub and she recognizes the men from their files which Steve himself had submitted to be a part of his new unit, the Howling Commandos, a specialty force designed to aid and defend allied bases across Europe, rescue POWs from camps, break the hold of enemy lines, and, more importantly, the only unit in the American army to focus on the capture of the Nazi deep science division, Hydra. 

"I see your top squad is prepping for duty."

At that, James Barnes, gave a quizzical, almost challenging smile. "You don't like music?"

"I do, actually," she replies, answering back effectively, but she kept on meeting Steve's gaze and does not break. "I might, even, when this is all over, go dancing."

There was a laugh of disbelief from Sergeant Barnes. "Then what are we waiting for?" 

"The right partner." She sees that realization dawned on Sergeant Barnes, that he somehow understood the gravity of those words and smiled deeper, if only discretely nudging his friend's shoulder.

"0800, Captain." And somehow, someway, she thinks of a different time and a different place and she thinks of music. She thinks of dancing. 

"Yes, ma'am. I'll be there."

* * *

When she sees him in the arms of Private Lorraine, their lips locked in a kiss, she is understandably mad. 

On a different note, she was not very reasonable when she had emptied a clip upon his untested shield before briskly walking away, ignoring the tell-tale sign that screamed at her that she was going to be in trouble and that there was a reason why she was so unreasonable. 

She wonders, that night in her own bed, stewing upon her actions, that it leaves her with a bad taste in the mouth when she pictures a vision of dancing with another man, of someone who is not her right partner. 

But more importantly, she is upset by the vision of Steve dancing with someone who is not his right partner.

Moreover, she is upset the same way she felt upon realizing why she disliked dancing with Fred. 

It's all about having the right partner. 

* * *

The Christmas party was held in their London base. 

Unable to leave for his wife, Colonel Phillips had been sulking the party away while ushering the soldiers in for a well-earned respite. 

Despite the gruff demeanor and the seemingly perpetual scowl he had fixed on his face, Colonel Phillips was actually quite a soft man who cared for his unit far more than an effective military colonel would. The reason, however, for his sunken mood is due to the fast spreading news of Germany's defeat—not that winning the war was a bad thing. 

The report came mid-November that the Germans were already scrambling with the string of Allied victories and there had been news of an imminent victory. It was also, mid-November when he had learned, due to a backlog in letters, that his daughter was pregnant and was due any day come December. 

His only daughter and his first grandchild and he had missed it. 

Winning the war was something everyone knew had to be done, if only for the people who will one day inherit this earth. But missing those milestones, it makes the mission heavier to bear and it sometimes, this feeling Peggy was well aware of, makes you wonder why you're fighting in the first place. 

So, when the ragtag team of musicians banded up together to make for nice music at the mess hall, Peggy took to Colonel Phillips and asked him to dance. 

In the corner of her eyes, she sees Steve following suit and asked their recently widowed camp nurse, who had become affectionately endeared to the soldiers as a unit mother, to dance with him. While she was at the center of the dance floor, brightening up the mood of a man she had come to know as her second father, she exchanges a smile with Steve from across the room, and she resolves, one day, she will dance with him, too.

* * *

There is a mission and she needed a man with a good aim.

Naturally, Sergeant Barnes had been selected while the other members of the Howling Commandos and its leader continued to pave the way for Berlin.

It was also there when she, at the end of their mission had a heart-to-heart talk they had at the back of a truck that was driving them back to the Howling Commandos where they were the last line of defense against an oncoming barrage of attacks from the Germans, they had talked about Steve. 

Bucky had confided in her that Steve was the one good man he knew, that he had protected him for as long as he could remember and that when she came, making him fall in love like that, utterly and helplessly—she tried very hard to hide a flush of red on her cheeks but was nonetheless pleased—he was scared because he could protect his best friend from all sorts of bullying, of attacks, even now that he's Captain America, but he could not protect him from a broken heart. 

He had asked her, that night they had been deposited near their drop-off point to walk the remaining thirty miles to the camp, if she loved him. It was then when she realized, with a startling certainty, that she did. She loved him more and more each day and she didn't know how but she did. 

She didn't know she needed a right partner, but the moment he had shown her, made her realize that, she knew she could not look at life the same way ever again. 

That night, Bucky had told her that he knew what she was doing. "You're playing that thing soldiers do."

"And what, pray tell, is that?"

"You're playing _after-the-war_." He stares up at the skies and there was a heavy sigh from him, one that hits her heavy and she understands that it is something she could not help. After the war is a game soldiers play thinking that they are survivors when they do not know, not really. 

"I don't play, Sergeant, not one bit."

"Exactly," she had given him a double look. "You're not taking any chances, you're not taking action in the one chance, one life you get." 

"I don't owe you an explanation for my actions, Sergeant Barnes," she says in a level, calm voice. She expected him to resort to exasperation, but he sighed once more, giving her a look that would continue to be in her mind. 

"No, not to me. But you will to yourself when the chance that something bad happens—and you know it can—and you didn't act on what you felt." He stopped her in her tracks and gave her a letter. It was from his mother. "Listen, Steve wrote to my ma and she said that Stevie asked her to find the ring Sarah had left him. He's real sweet on you, Agent Carter, and I know Steve like the back of my hand and he's a self-sacrificing idiot and he'll gladly give his life if it meant making sure no one else gets hurt."

"Sergeant Barnes, I assure you—"

"No, let me finish," he says firmly, "This war has taken too much already. Don't let it take more than it should." He pressed the letter to her hands, she glanced down and she sees the neat handwriting of Winnifred Barnes and how, in one line, it says she's so happy that their little Steve has fallen in love and that only hopes that Sarah Rogers was alive to see this moment. "You said you wanted to go out dancing?"

"I did. I am." Then, smoothly, she adds, "I'm waiting for the right moment." And she smiles, because she's already found her partner. 

"Good, it's settled, then, Agent Carter."

"No," and Sergeant Barnes' brows furrowed as if to say, _now where did I go wrong?_

"What?"

"Call me Peggy."

He smiled and stuck out his hand. "Bucky."

* * *

It his Steve's birthday when the Howling Commandos were stationed in Italy. 

The sun was bright, set right above them and it was a sweltering heat that had her using a file to fan what little heat. 

A village had been heavily steeped in the resistance against the fascist regime and the SSR and its top unit, the Howling Commandos, had been sent to survey the small armed force and they had celebrated a win as they cut off a much needed enemy shipment line. 

It was there in Italy, in a small convent near the sea, just before they ship out the next morning, when one of the little girls exclaimed that it was Captain America and that it was his birthday and she wanted to dance with him. 

Silently, Peggy admired the gumption of the little girl who walked away with what she had yet to achieve—dancing with Steve Rogers. 

In the end, just as he was going to her spot, a soldier had called upon her with urgent news that Johann Schmidt was moving around key personnel and that it will be a crucial time to pinpoint just who are being brought from all over the company to the hidden Hydra base. 

She resolves, when she instead shares a drink with him, that come her birthday, she will have a request to ask of him and she hopes, with a smile and a low voice, that perhaps he will indulge her. 

"Gentlemen, we roll out 0600."

* * *

The date on her birthday never came. 

Due to intelligence needed by MI6, she had been briefly withdrawn from any SSR operations and only came back come January of 1945. 

She had to coordinate the mission, but there was a pull in her gut that churned painfully when she gave the team to go ahead with their mission. 

Peggy was not there, however, when they mounted the side of a mountain, marking their plateau as they spy on the train, Jacques and Gabe report that the train is moving faster than anything they have ever seen in their lives and she is wondering, debating if she should withdraw her green light but it is too late. 

A week later, in a devastated London pub, she sees Steve on a remaining table, looking more lost than and she takes her seat across him. 

There was a bottle in front of him and she understands immediately when he looks up, eyes red-rimmed and voice scratchy. 

"Erskine said that the serum wouldn't just affect my muscles, it would affect my cells. Create a protective system of regeneration and healing. Which means, um," he clears his throat with a cough and brandishes the empty bottle, "I can't get drunk."

Peggy, with his file burning bright in her mind, nods absentmindedly, "Your metabolism burns four times faster than the average person. He thought it would be one of the side effects." Her throat hitches as well, because she had lost a friend in Sergeant Barnes, too. "It wasn't your fault."

"Did you read the reports?" she nodded. 

"Then you know that's not true." He goes off in a haze of thousand-yard stares. He kept whispering, in a guilt-ridden, emotion-heavy broken voice that all he had to do was hold on, hold him. That for all the times Bucky had been there for him, wading in to pull him out, the one time he needed the favor returned and the one time he could actually do just that, he didn't. He couldn't and he was too late and how Bucky Barnes is dead. 

She thinks of that talk with Sergeant Barnes and so, in clear conscience, she meant it in her heart when she says it is not his fault, that he had done everything in his power to save their friend, that he needed to stop blaming himself for Bucky's death, that he should allow Bucky the dignity of his choice because it that choice meant Steve, then he thought it must have been damn well worth it.

* * *

Peggy hangs on the railing of the car when Steve is readying to board the plane. 

It is also there, at that moment where their CO is simple in front of them, that she remembers Bucky Barnes' advice and takes that jump, that leap of courage and calls out his attention. 

"Wait!" she takes him by the leather straps of his uniform and pulls him down for a kiss. Her lips part with a pop and her heart is pounding in her chest, the blood echoing in her ears. He is dazed and and his eyes are unfocused, but there was a huff of disbelief from his lips, a growing smile that tugged on his face, and a look he gave her as if she had hung the stars and moon above herself. 

And she thinks, as Colonel Phillips shot her a sharp look, that she is in trouble for pulling a stunt like that. 

But that she is also at the cusp, at the beginning of something she knows is valuable, something that is worth a thousand adventures. She remembers her brother and she hates that he's never met Steve. This is it. The right partner, this is the dance that she has long been waiting for. 

And all of that is one mission away. 

"Go get him."

* * *

Even in the face of certain death, they think of the dance they should have had.

It is only too late when she takes Bucky's advice because there is no way to get the plane to land safely without harming New York and there is no way to save New York without crashing the plane. 

She wishes that she had brought along Howard but it will have been useless. None of them would have been real solutions.

But it hits her the hardest when he says, in a gravelly voice, that to save New York and every other marked city on its navigation panel was his choice. Hearing her words brought back to her had grounded her for a minute that left her unable to breath but she nods, albeit knowing he wouldn't see. 

It was always an unspoken agreement that they are going to dance. 

But now that it is for certain that it is a date they will never have, a song they will never dance to, she trembles and tears up when he says:

"I'm going to need a raincheck on that dance."

* * *

She grieves but life moves on. 

When Germany surrendered and Japan follows suit, she moves to protect what he died to save. 

The ideals of freedom and justice and the peace they had all fought for was hard won but it was theirs now. She is going to Washington in a few weeks and she accepts this new change in life. California hadn't been the future she once thought she could have. Daniel wasn't the partner she thought would have once again. 

Their relationship was systematical, a rigid set of movements that once duty and responsibility got out of the way or if it clashed, the illusion faded away. It was like the dancing she had first seen in that American hall—raw passion and determination and it burned her to hold it. 

This was not the dance she thought she would have and deep down inside, Daniel knows it, too. They part with a teary kiss, one that had them eyeing the spot where the other had last been, lingering longer than necessary and both wondered if it was a mistake. 

But it wasn't a mistake.

Because dancing wasn't supposed to be suffocating or tiring or intimidating. 

It was supposed to come natural, fluid and singular in understanding. It came in different forms but there was one touch that made it all make sense. An understanding that it was a part of a whole rather than a pair of ones. Dancing was togetherness, but with Daniel, it was being together in lieu of being alone. 

Dancing was for the right partner. 

Peggy takes her time, moving to Washington, cherishing the little drive, the spark of Brooklyn and New York that she saw in Steve. She cherishes each moment where she lingers around in the places where she thinks Steve would have stayed, she even takes a day to go to Coney Island and wins herself a stuffed plush of Captain America.

She smells of the sea and makes her way towards the beach. Peggy took off her heels and let her feet bury themselves into the damp sand, the water slowly and gently gushing in and pulling back. It is not the dance she always imagined they would have but it is a dance of the sea and it is a freedom she has long gone without.

She smells of the sea and she resonates that she is with him then, at peace at least, at last.

* * *

When he returns to her, a decade older and man who has fought through wars and lived in the future, they dance in the middle of her living room floor. 

It was a tight space, their ankles brushed and bumped against the low-hanging coffee table or the legs of the settee, but she tears up nonetheless as they continue to sway to the music. 

They move as one, little touches here and there. Each sway of their hip had a reaction that was unlike any other and her eyes would dip close to cherish each minute, each second he is close to her when he looks down and leans into her for a kiss. 

All her life, dancing had been confining, a chore and a tool and suffocating. It wasn't real. It wasn't dancing. 

But now, even as the radio's music faded into a soft static, she realizes that it is not the music or the lighting or even the setting. It is the partner, as he once said to be the case that morning they drove off to Brooklyn. 

And there is no right time, no special hour or date night, none of that. It is barely twelve minutes after six when the light bulb around them began to dim and flicker, like it always did for prolonged use, but it didn't break the reverie or make the moment any less special. It was theirs. 

It was him. 

And with the right partner, Peggy learned that she could care for dancing after all. 

And it is with Steve, she thinks with a smile, a lingering feeling of his lips over hers, that she already does love to dance. 


End file.
